


Let Dawn Come at It's Own Pace

by rickyling



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M, references to one sided Rickyl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 11:05:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6192598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rickyling/pseuds/rickyling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you trust ‘im?” Maggie asked, tone perhaps too casual than the situation might have called for. Daryl shrugged.</p>
<p>“Not really.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Dawn Come at It's Own Pace

When Daryl Dixon was fifteen years old, he got drunk at a party and ended up half naked in a closet with a girl wrapped around his torso, drooling on the tattoo above his heart. That night, he detangled himself and fled, vomiting on the side of the road only when he was far enough away that he couldn’t hear the thundering music anymore. For months, almost a year after that, he never even brought a hand to himself.

Then he met a boy, a boy with curly blond hair and blue eyes who could sing and sound like Bruce Springsteen. And that boy took him in the back of a pickup truck, at two in the morning, when the movie ended and the drive in was clearing. After that, he he no longer tasted the bile in his throat, or feel the cramped walls closing in on him one side and the too-soft curves on the other.

Now here he was in his mid-forties, only having been laid by that one boy and a select few he could count on one hand. Never a girl again, because he refused to let himself go back there. He told himself, somehow convinced himself, over the years that no, he couldn’t be gay, Dixons weren’t gay. But then he thought of that girl -- he couldn’t even remember the color of her hair, just the pain in his gut -- and felt fifteen and sick again.

For a while he thought Carol, maybe. She was gentle with him in a way no one else ever was. She combed his hair out of his face, let her eyes trace the scars on his back with nothing but leveled indifference; she dared not pity him or point them out. She had her own, she knew how this worked. But after a while, after the farm and sometime before the prison, he realized she was just filling the void his mother left when she engulfed herself in flames. But Carol didn’t smoke, so this was better.

And for a longer while, a period of time that had no beginning and no end, he believed Rick. Because, why the hell wouldn’t he? Hard planes of muscle, sharp cheekbones blanketed in stubble, and ocean blue eyes that held every emotion Daryl stuffed down inside himself. They were polar opposites, Rick and Daryl, yet so identical, looking each at each other was like staring at your reflection in a river: distorted. But Rick laid with Michonne, because why wouldn’t he? She was there, could do the things Daryl could not, and he was forever thankful he chose her; he trusted no one with Rick’s life more than Michonne, minus himself. If they two parted, Michonne could fill his place, and he would plainly be a dark smudge in Rick’s memory.

_“Guy calls himself Jesus.”_

Aggravating. Cocky. Reckless.

Daryl had known Paul Rovia for only a handful of days, and each time the sun rose he learned a knew thing about a man who was making it his unofficial duty to push every single one of his buttons. At first, it was the morning walks. Daryl would wake with the birds, when the air was still gray and fresh, when it was silent and still and you could hear your own heart pounding. He’d walk down the street, boots tapping on the asphalt, red cherry of his cigarette bobbing up and down at the bottom of his vision, and Jesus would join him. Daryl had to give him credit, he tried to start conversations, and it was a hell of a task. The first fifteen minutes or so, little chimes on the weather or dreams, and then, a companionable -- Daryl sneered at the word -- silence.

Then in the afternoon they’d climb the guard tower, sit shoulder to shoulder, eating stale chips. Again, Jesus would try to talk, only to get glares and half-grunts in reply. Daryl didn’t like to talk, that's why he cherished his friendship with Rick so greatly -- they could communicate without speaking. Jesus would try and fail again, shaking his head and chuckling in defeat, and they’d finish Daryl shift in that silence again.

In the evening, Daryl would hover on the porch of his house, the house that felt more like Rick and Michonne’s than it could ever be his. He’d swallow down an unexplainable lump in his throat, curse under his breath when the stairs creaked under his feet, and Jesus would call a hushed goodnight from the lawn behind him. Daryl would hunch his shoulders and pretend he didn’t hear, but really it was the last thing resonating in his ears when he fell asleep at night because anything was better than a silence that wasn’t filled with Jesus.  
On the day before the attack on the Saviors, after Rick stood in front of stained glass and spoke merciless gospel to a terrified but determined group of apostles, Jesus tried again.

Daryl was elbow deep in the hood of a car, checking that everything was running smoothly, and the easiest part of their trip tomorrow would go off without a hitch. Jesus had followed him, practically stepping on his heels, when he left the church, silent and offhand like it was something they’d always done.

“Were you a mechanic before all this?” He asked, leaning against a wall a few yards away from where Daryl was working. Daryl glanced up, eyes squinted in the sunlight. “Just seems like your calling,” Jesus said with a shrug, casual and light.

Daryl looked away. “Nah, I wasn’t.”

“What did you do, then?”

“What did you do?” Daryl countered, and Jesus scoffed.

“Asked you first.”

Daryl rolled his eyes and pushed off the ground, sauntering over to the not-so-much-a-stranger-anymore. Jesus straightened and gleamed when he saw he was Daryl’s destination. Daryl had noticed he did that, and God, it pissed him off. Jesus handed him a water bottled that was a third full, and Daryl accepted it gratefully, his tongue dry and skin sweaty. As if on some cue, both men slide to the ground in the shade cast by the house, backs against the cool white paint.

“Didn’t really do anythin’,” Daryl said quietly, muffled around the water bottle. Jesus shot him a look, a searching one, not a judging one, and nodded.

“You and me,” Jesus said, taking the bottle from Daryl. He took a swig, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing. “We aren’t that different.”

“I know.”

Their eyes met, for seconds, minutes, hours -- Daryl didn’t know. And they stayed like that for a long time, sitting against the house away from prying eyes. Away from Rick and Michonne, away from everyone, away from noise. Just Daryl and Jesus, in a companionable silence, one that, for once, Jesus didn’t try to fill. The sun went down and, damn it, Daryl forgot his jacket, and how his sweat-slick arms were chilly and his ass was sore from sitting on the grass, and he doubts Jesus was faring any better, but neither of them wanted to move. When the first star appeared in the sky, twinkling millions of miles away, like a diamond ring on a piece of black cloth, Daryl spoke first.

“Why me?” He asked, staring not at Jesus but at the star. His vision went blurry, his eyes wetting on their own accord, betraying him. Daryl could feel Jesus staring at him, those blue-might-be-green eyes boring into his face, struggling to read him like he was a novel written in metaphors; he would never be beautiful like that, though. “Was it just because I was available? Easy? Everyone else was taken and you--”

“No.” Daryl had never heard Jesus’ voice go that low, that feral. When Daryl turned to face him his eyes were ablaze, brow furrowed and bearded mouth set in a frown. He didn’t say anything else, but that one word struck Daryl so intensely in his chest that he didn’t mind, because no matter how hard he believed it couldn’t be true, it had to be. They leaned back, watching the sky instead of each other, sitting close enough that their shoulders were touching but not pressed.  
  
They stood only when more stars joined the sky, and Daryl knew Rick and Michonne would be worrying about him. Maybe. Daryl stood first, holding a hand out to Jesus who looked up at him with a sadness Daryl couldn’t decode. It was a sadness of two houses down and a cold half of the bed. When Jesus accepted Daryl outstretched hand, Daryl pulled him up gently -- as gently as the situation called for. What happened between that and Daryl pushing the other man up against the wall was lost to both of them.

Their lips didn’t touch, not right away, but their noses were bumping and they couldn’t see anything but the blurry, blue irises of each other’s eyes. Jesus’ hands came to rest on Daryl’s cheeks, thumb rubbing circles against the beauty mark above his lip, fingers combing through his hair. Daryl released a stuttering breath that reached his mouth, hands braced on the wall on either side of Jesus’s head. And then Jesus, damn him, cracked a smile. Daryl made quick work of getting rid of that smug look.

Soft, slow, the unsure press of lips for the first time. Facial hair brushed exotically, hard, flat planes of their chests pressed more firmly together when Jesus moaned against Daryl’s lips and tugged him closer. It was Daryl’s turn to smile, amused at how easily he got to Jesus, and before they knew it they had their tongues in each other’s mouths. Jesus growled and pulled on Daryl’s hair while Daryl slotted his knee in between Jesus’ thighs and anchored his body when he arched backwards like a cat. And then suddenly, chaste again, the passion subsiding only for a few moments, so it would be easier to pull away, the natural slide of lips, until they were pressed forehead to forehead, daring not close their eyes in case the other disappeared.

“C’mon,” Jesus whispers, pecking Daryl on the lips and then brushing past him, tugging on his hand to get him to follow. They left the ally and Daryl’s bike, walking slowly back towards Daryl’s house, each footstep more betraying than the last. Around them, the neighborhood was quiet, with only a few houses having candles lit in the windows. Daryl’s was completely black.

The white porch was faded gray in the dim light, moonlight splashing over the surface of the wood like a beacon. The door would be unlocked, his bed warm and inviting, the sounds of Rick’s snores from the room over a cadence of sound to put him to sleep. Daryl swallowed a lump in his throat and ignored the way his legs felt like they were going to give way under him.

“Don’t, then,” Jesus whispered behind him, like Daryl said _I don’t wanna go in there_ out loud. For a second he was afraid he had, but he knew Jesus could just tell. “Come with me.” Daryl looked up at the window he was sure was Rick’s, pictured him lead-boned, tangled with Michonne, and turned back to Jesus.

Jesus stayed two houses down, with Abraham, Rosita, and Eugene; away from Judith and Carl, but close enough to be watched over if he tried anything. His room was on the first floor, which made it conveniently easy to sneak into, even with the lights off and the house still and silent. Jesus slipped in first, holding the door open while Daryl stepped in behind him, then shut it. The click it made seemed almost too loud and the both flinched, the milliseconds following filled with irrational fear that someone heard them and would come running.

Daryl took a moment to look around his room: it wasn’t decorated or special in any way, just bland white walls and mundane sheets on the bed. Jesus walked around him, shrugging off his trench coat and hat and tossing them on a chair in the corner, then set his knife down on the bedside table. Daryl watched his back, breathing shaky and uneven, bringing a thumb up to his mouth to chew on a hangnail.

  
Jesus turned and smiled gently at him. “We don’t have to do anything, I get it. We just met, you--”

“I wanna,” Daryl cut him off but contradicted himself but biting down harder on his skin until it all but bled. “We could be dead tomorrow.”

Jesus shook his head and walked forward until he was right in front of Daryl. “Don’t say that.” He breathed, then captured Daryl’s lips once more.

Almost at once, with an urgency that surprised even him, Daryl was pawing at Jesus’ clothes. If his mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied, he might’ve complained about why the hell he was wearing so many layers. Jesus was pushing his leather vest off his broad shoulders, breaking the kiss only too pull his own shirt up and over his head, as Daryl’s hands were shaking too much to unbutton it. He went to remove Daryl’s shirt next, and in a fleeting second, Daryl remembered his scars and grabbed Jesus’ wrists.

“You okay?” Jesus asked, immediately pulling his hand away. Daryl nodded frantically, thinking, _too far, come back_ , and reached for the back of his neck. Cupping it, he brought their foreheads together and took a few moments to surround himself in just Jesus before speaking.

“I have scars...” He whispered, hoping and praying the other man knew what he was referring to. Jesus seemed confused for a few moments, then released a trembling breath that hit Daryl’s lips like waves on the shore. The man kissed him again, and unbuttoned Daryl’s shirt, letting it pool to the ground at their feet.

“I don’t care,” Jesus said, pulling back and looking Daryl in the eye. Then he frowned and said, “Well, I do, but because someone hurt you, I don’t care about them in a way that--”

“Shut up,” Daryl chuckled, knowing what he meant and being thankful for that, lurching forward so hard they collapsed backwards onto the bed. Jesus moaned in surprised and leaned up into Daryl’s body, hands digging into his hair while the hunter placed assorted wet and dry kisses down the exposed skin of his neck and collarbone. Daryl gave an experimental downward rock of his hips, and his groan choked into laughter as Jesus let out a sob muffled by his hand.

They stayed like that, grinding, until Jesus seemed to reach a breaking point, and began tearing at Daryl’s pants. He ripped his belt off and tossed it across the room, flinching when it landed with a sharp clang. Daryl hardly noticed, too busy giving the same treatment he was receiving. At the first skin to skin contact, Daryl buried his face in Jesus’ neck and moaned like a cheap whore.

Then Jesus flipped them over and clasped their hands together above Daryl’s head, and he was done for.

Hours later, in the afterglow, Daryl laid awake and remembered the first night he brought Jesus back to Alexandria and dropped him in a cell like a bag of rocks.

_A single rap on the door announced Maggie’s arrival, and when she stepped into the small room, Daryl looked up from Jesus for the first time. In one hand she held a plate of cucumbers and tomatoes, and a cookie, and in the other a travel sized first aid kid. She joined him on the floor without speaking, passing over the plate of food and leaning against the wall so their shoulders were touching._

_“New guy,” Daryl explained through a mouth full of vegetables. Maggie’s face contorted in loving disgust when he spoke with his mouth full._

_“I figured,” The ex-farm girl said quietly. “Lemme_ check _out those scratches, looks like he put up a fight.”_

_“’m fine,” Daryl grunted but allowed her to crouch in front of him and clean the dirt and dried blood off his face. It soothed his nerves, the familiar feel of a family member checking and washing his_ face, _like one would enjoy a massage. It was a closeness he’d never experienced before the world ended._

_“Do you trust ‘im?” Maggie asked, tone perhaps more casual than the situation might have called for. Daryl shrugged._

  
_“Not really.”_

_“You trust him enough to let me be in the same room as him,” Maggie countered, sitting back against the wall when she was satisfied with her work. A smile crinkled her eyes and pulled at the right side of her lips._

_Daryl snorted and rolled his eyes. “Or I just trust that_ _y’can kick his ass if he tries anythin’. Plus, he’s unconscious.”_

_“Right,” Maggie said._

_They stayed like that for a while, watching over Jesus. They didn’t speak, not until Maggie reached over and pressed her lips into Daryl’s hair._

_“Give him a chance,” She whispered, sounding amused. “He was tough enough to give you and Rick one hell of a day, he could be a good guy.”_

  
_They exchanged hushed goodbyes and then she left, and Daryl was alone with Jesus again._

Dawn light filtered through the curtains on the window, bathing the room in soft orange light. Daryl woke first, laying with on his side with his back to the still sleeping Jesus, content to watch the shadows change on the wall until his lover awakened. His back was exposed, cool where the air touched it, and his mouth felt bruised from post-kiss. It came as a surprise that he didn’t get startled when fingers started tracing the tattoo on his shoulder blades.

“Are the demons dancing or fighting?” Jesus asked, voice hoarse from sleep. Daryl smiled softly and turned onto his back. The other man immediately reached over with his recently unoccupied hand and stroked Daryl’s cheek with his thumb softly, like he’d been doing it his entire life.

“Think it depends on tha day,” Daryl replied. Jesus’ eyes closed in a silent chuckle, hair falling across his face. When he stopped, he pulled himself up on an elbow and kissed Daryl slow and languid, like they had all the time in the world. Daryl’s heart ached wishing they did.

“We fight the Saviors tonight,” Jesus murmured as Daryl slithered down on the bed so Jesus could rest his furry chin atop his head. Daryl grumbled and pressed his nose into Jesus’ warm skin, tangling their legs together. Jesus sighed like he was frustrated, his fingers thrumming against Daryl’s bare bicep. “You could stay back. I have to go, but--”

Daryl lifted his head and glared at his bedmate. “Do y’know me at all?”

  
Jesus sighed in defeat. “Yeah, thought so.”

“Sorry.” Daryl laid his head back down again, tone completely unapologetic. Jesus went back to tracing unseen lines on Daryl’s skin. In the back of his mind, Daryl knew he needed to get up. It was late already, and Rick would be rallying the troops sooner rather than later. The other occupants of the house would be rising soon, which would make it next to impossible to sneak out. With bones heavier than stone and the most willpower he could muster, Daryl untangled himself from Jesus.

He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his clothes askew across the room in contempt, like it was somehow their fault. Jesus sat up behind him, plastering his chest to Daryl’s back and rubbing his beard on the highest demon. Daryl sighed and leaned into the touch, craning his neck to the side so Jesus could place kisses up and down the straining tendons. One of the man’s arms came around and wrapped around his chest, his hand turning Daryl’s face to engage in an awkward, messy, misplaced open mouthed kiss.

“Rick’ll be wonderin’ where I’m at,” Daryl said against Jesus’ mouth. The man thumped his head down onto Daryl’s shoulder and pressed a kiss there, then pulled back and let Daryl get dressed.

“I’ll see y’later,” Daryl said, pulling on his vest. Jesus watched him from the bed, laying on his back with his arms behind his head, his bare chest exposed and taunting.

“Won’t be the same,” Jesus countered, sounding sad. Daryl nodded and met his gaze once more before turning and leaving the room.

When he walked down the street towards his own house, Daryl didn’t feel guilty, he couldn’t taste the bile in his mouth, or feel the ghost of that girl wrapped around his body from all those years ago. He didn’t feel like he was walking away from something, but rather the opposite.

_“Do you trust him?”_

_Yeah,_ Daryl thought, sitting on the front steps of his porch and lighting a cigarette. _He ain’t that bad._


End file.
